Oh, poop.

It isn't that the realization of your eventual return isn't sure.
It isn't a(n insecure) belief in waning affections and the sparkling allure in shiny new toys.
I don't believe the world will stop turning in your absence.
It's that I just miss you.
And it hurts.
I feel your absence.
Constantly.
And the memory of you will never replace the real thing.
So here I sit, in one of your very-much-so-overlarge shirts. The ones that are almost-dresses, brushing far past mid-thigh, soft and worn.
Remembering
Your smell.
Your warmth.
Your laughter.
Hugs.
Kisses.
Love.





Just come back safe you doofus.
(Days left: 52)

Picture of a Picture

Things between us aren't easy sometimes, but I'm still glad to be working on them with you.

"If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up the men to gather wood, divide the work and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless sea." —Antoine de Saint-Exuper

Making popcorn isn't the same without you to fight over it with.

New Beginning Coming Soon

But until then, let this tide over you.

Lil' Buck dancing to James Blake's "Limit to Your Love".